


Toss a Coin to your Guy

by LoveRun



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Bisexual Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Bonfire Night, COVID-19, Coronavirus, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Good Parent Jaskier, Good Parent Julian Alfred Pankratz, Good Parent Yennefer of Vengerberg, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Modern AU, Modern Era, Multi, One Shot, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Parent Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Polyamory, Throuple, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Yennefer of Vengerberg has Feelings, circuitbreak lockdown, firebreak lockdown, lockdown - Freeform, lockdown restrictions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27407824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveRun/pseuds/LoveRun
Summary: 2020 has been a bad year for everyone. Jaskier decides to make Bonfire Night an evening of joy
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & The Hansa | Geralt's Company, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Toss a Coin to your Guy

**Author's Note:**

> i know that in most (all?) of the UK, meeting up is banned right now, even outside. but i'm living vicariously through some characters and i promise they're all being very safe!
> 
> Bonfire Night's a very British thing but I assume most people have a vague idea of what it is? basically we make a big bonfire and set off fireworks and sparklers and burn effigies that we call Guys and eat pea soup and caramel apples because a plot to blow up Parliament failed.
> 
> yeah, i don't know either. but it's fun!

Ciri’s bottom lip wobbled once, and Jaskier knew he was done for.

“Fuck it! I’m calling your father!”

“What? You don’t have to…” her brows furrowed in panic at inconveniencing someone. Jaskier knows the feeling well, but waves it away with a smile. It’s much easier to reassure someone that they’re not a burden when they’re not, well… yourself.

“No, I’m doing it! He’s already in Asda, it’s fine.”

Geralt picks up on the second ring, voice slightly muffled by his facemask. “What?”

“Geralt, hi! How are you, chum?”

“I saw you twenty minutes ago, Jaskier. What do you want?”

“Rude, Geralt. I’m trying to be polite…”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls in his _I’m warning you_ voice.

“Fine. Can you grab me some fireworks? And some peas, and bacon, and apples and sugar? Ooh, and cider. Or mulled wine. Any booze that tastes good when hot. Ooh, no, I know! Baileys and hot chocolate!”

There’s a rustling on the other end of the phone as Geralt picks something up – probably something obnoxiously green and healthy – and puts it in his shopping basket. 

“Why are you asking me to pick up the ingredients for a Bonfire Night Party? When it’s already eight in the evening on Bonfire Night? During lockdown?”

“…because I’m throwing a Bonfire Night party?”

“No you’re not, Jaskier.” 

“A socially distanced Bonfire Night party!” Jaskier sings, wheeling.

“You’ll set fire to something. Possibly yourself. Definitely our house. You could burn down the whole street.” The supermarket tannoy speaks in the background, reminding customers to shop responsibly and follow the one-way system in the aisles.

“Come on, Geralt,” Jaskier whines, avoiding Ciri’s eye. “We deserve a little break. _All of us_ are ready for a little fun.”

There’s a pause on the other line when Jaskier assumes Geralt is weighing up the benefits of different types of protein powder, or whatever. Then he says: “Am I on speakerphone?”

“No?”

“Is this about Ciri?” 

“You could say that,” Jaskier replies. It’s best if Ciri doesn’t know they’re talking about her; she’s already uncomfortable at the idea that anyone would go to any trouble over her. Best if she thinks that Geralt is indulging his idiot boyfriend. Again.

_She’d come to his study just after Geralt had left, sat down in the tatty old armchair in the corner while he was working out a new composition on his guitar._

_“What’s up, chick?” He’d asked, busy scrawling a lyric into his notebook. He’d known something was wrong when she hadn’t chastised him for the nickname; she hadn’t let him call her_ chick _since she was about eight._

_“Nothing…” she’d pulled the cuffs of her jumper down past her fingers, fiddling with the hems rather than looking him in the eye._

_He’d laid down his guitar. “Nope. I know that look, that is not a nothing look. What’s wrong?”_

_To his horror, her face had crumpled as hot tears spilled down her face. She scrubbed at them fiercely with her sleeves, but they were replaced quicker than they could be wiped away. Jaskier rushed to sit beside her on the arm of her chair, wrapping a protective arm around her._

_“Hey, Ciri, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He held her close to his side, feeling the hot spread of her tears as they soaked through the shoulder of his turquoise cardigan, rocking her until she could speak without sobbing._

_“It’s just… this whole year has been so crap, you know? We missed my birthday, and Easter, and Hallowe’en, and now Bonfire night… and I always used to… with my parents… there was this firework display we’d go to every year…” her voice broke off with a hiccough. “It’s just shit, isn’t it? Fuck this year.”_

_She wiped her eyes once more, and looked up at him bravely. It was then that her lip wobbled, and Jaskier was sunk._

Geralt sighs, and Jaskier knows he’s won.

“Alright. I’ll be home in half an hour with the stuff. You call everyone.” The line goes dead.

“Thanks, Geralt! Love you too!” Jaskier trills into the dead call before putting his own phone away. He turns to Ciri, grinning. “We’re on!”

Ciri gives him a watery smile. It’s the first he’s seen from her in a while, he realises. How had he not noticed? The poor girl deserves some joy. Well, no better way to do that than firing explosives in the air and watching them go bang.

“Thanks, Jaskier,” she says it like a secret.

“No problem, chick. I’ll just start ringing around people and… sparklers! I forgot to ask him for sparklers!” Jaskier pulls out his phone to text Geralt about sharp metal sticks designed to be held by children that burn bright and hot enough to give third degree burns. He gets a bit misty-eyed thinking about it. Childhood memories!

Yennefer returns home from work an hour later, kicking off her boots and unwinding her scarf as she heads to the kitchen. She freezes in the doorway, taking in the scene of carnage. Jaskier has his tongue sticking out, a look of deep concentration on his face as he dips apples into home-made caramel. Ciri is at the hob, stirring a suspiciously gloopy green substance that’s steaming in a saucepan. Yenn inhales, and is relieved to smell nothing more distressing than pea soup. She wonders briefly where Geralt is, before some muffled cursing from the garden answers that question. She glances out of the window and sees him trying to push the thin stakes of fireworks into the rocky soil of their scrubby patch of grass.

 _“What_ is happening?” She demands.

“Mum! Hi!” Ciri grins at her with a face flushed from standing over a cooking pot. “We’re making pea soup and caramel apples. Dad’s setting up the fireworks in the garden.”

She turns back to the steaming concoction in the saucepan that’s just started bubbling and spitting thick green sludge over the hob, stirring it to keep it from burning.

Only one person could have an idea that would leave her kitchen in such a state.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer growls.

Jaskier looks up, the picture of a schoolboy caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

“Yenn?” He blinks innocently, crossing the kitchen to give her a quick kiss. He’s fooling no one.

“What the fuck?” She demands simply.

“Ah, well…” Jaskier’s eyes flit to Ciri, who’s thankfully still absorbed in soup-making. “We’ve all, uh, had a difficult time of it at the moment. You’re off doing a marvellous job of keeping the government in check and making sure they don’t fuck everything up as badly as they might have. Geralt’s in the hospital all hours, working triple shifts. My tour was cancelled. I… thought we could all do with a night that was normal. Bonfire night’s outdoors anyway, the garden’s big enough for us to keep our distance.”

Yenn picks up on what he’s not saying: that Ciri needs this. It’s only because of that that she hasn’t threatened him with death or dismemberment yet.

She picks up on what else he’s not saying, too. “’Big enough for us to keep our distance?’ Who’s ‘us’?”

“Ah… well… just a few people.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow.

“Well. Lambert and Aiden, and Eskel, of course.”

Yennefer crosses her arms.

“…and Essi and Priscilla.”

Yenn purses her lips.

“…and Triss, Margarita and Tissaia.”

She taps her foot against the floor impatiently.

“…and, um. And Regis and Milva and Angoulême. But that’s all, I swear!”

“And _why_ are all these people descending on my house?” Yennefer demands.

 _“Our_ house,” Jaskier corrects in his best offended voice. He had paid a third of the deposit and mortgage payments, Yenn grudgingly admits, so she can’t really dispute it.

“For bonfire night!” Ciri says gleefully.

And there’s really nothing she can say to that, is there?

She turns on her heel and heads towards the stairs.

“Erm… where are you going?” Jaskier asks, nervously.

“If we’re doing Bonfire Night, we’ll need a Guy.”

“Oooh, yes, Yenn! Good idea! What will we make it out of?”

“You’ll see,” she promises with a wicked flash of a smile before disappearing to the next floor. 

“She’s not going to burn _me,_ is she?” he asks Ciri nervously.

Ciri shrugs. “Just don’t get close enough to the bonfire that she could push you in, you’ll probably be fine.”

“Comforting. Thanks, chick.”

Ciri rolls her eyes, sighing dramatically. “Don’t call me that!”

Jaskier grins. She must be feeling better already.

Everyone but Essi and Triss makes it in person. They enter through the side gate directly to the garden, obediently using the hand sanitiser Geralt thrusts at them before having steaming mugs of pea soup pressed into their hands by a grinning Cirilla. Jaskier passes around warmed alcohol of every variety, feeling himself get tipsy from the fumes alone, while Yennefer sets up a tablet on the garden table. Essi and Triss’s eager faces pop up on Zoom, and the whole party cheers their hellos.

The night is crisp, starry despite the light pollution. Their breath winds its way skywards in little white wisps as they laugh and talk, mixing with the thick smoke that’s hanging everywhere as a whole nation sets fire to things to celebrate a day when Parliament didn’t explode. _The UK is deeply weird,_ Jaskier reflects before deciding not to think about it too hard. 

The pea soup and apples go down well, while the heated alcohol goes down even better. They all crowd around the firepit and crane their necks back to _ooh_ and _aah_ at the fireworks that Geralt lights at a safe distance from the others, a look of utter concentration on his face. Jaskier feels fondness curl in his chest at the sight; everything this man does is so painstakingly careful.

He risks a side glance at Ciri as a blue and white firework explodes above their heads. She’s wrapped up almost comically well at Geralt’s insistence, in a thick coat and chunky-knit scarf. Her face is revealed by the bright burst of colour, all sparkling green eyes and grinning sharp teeth, before the light fades. In the illumination of the next firework, Yenn catches his eye and nods at him, acknowledging a job well done. He nods back, not even trying to hold back the smug look on his face. Ciri looks happier than she has in weeks. So does Yenn, but he won’t be pointing that out because he doesn’t actually have a death wish, no matter what Geralt might say.

Eventually, the fireworks are all spent, leaving nothing but the firepit to illuminate the garden. Yennefer stands up and announces it’s time for the Guy.

“Ooh, you have a Guy! I thought this was a last-minute thing?” Triss says from the tablet.

“It was,” Jaskier tells her with a grin. “But you know Yenn. She’s good at improvising. So get your coins out, everyone! Penny for the Guy and all that! It’s tradition!”

“I _am_ good at improvising,” Yennefer agrees as she re-emerges from the house. She’s carrying a life-size figure, obviously stuffed with newspaper, its limbs hanging in an eerily boneless way in the firelight. The firelight catches the material its body is made from, a bright geometric print in clashing colours which looks oddly familiar.

“Wait a minute!” Jaskier demands as he jumps up. “That’s my shirt!” he makes a dash for the figure just as Yennefer tosses it onto the fire. Geralt grabs him by the collar of his jacket to stop him from running at the firepit to save his clothes from the flames.

“That shirt was offensive to the eye. I’m doing you a favour,” Yennefer drawls. Jaskier struggles ineffectively in Geralt’s grip, only going limp once the Guy has burned away and taken all traces of his favourite top with it.

Milva claps. “You’re doing the work of the gods there, Yennefer!” She declares. Regis and Angoulême laugh and nod along, the traitors.

“Fuck, Yenn! That was out of order!” Jaskier whines as Geralt finally releases him.

Yenn laughs, pulling something from her back pocket and throwing it at him. He catches it reflexively, looks down to see… a geometric print in clashing colours, the material soft and familiar between his fingers.

“I found another of those thrice-accursed tops in a charity shop. I’ve been waiting to use it for something like this,” she grins at him in the firelight, looking exactly like a demon. 

“It’s not thrice-accursed! It’s _fashion!”_ Jaskier huffs. Geralt snorts behind him, earning himself a cuff around the ear.

The others filter away in ones and twos before it gets too late, mindful of work in the morning. It’s weird saying goodbye without hugging everyone breathless; Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. He’s lucky to live with the three people he loves most, he reminds himself. Most people aren’t even that lucky.

Eventually, Jaskier is left alone in the garden with the three most important people in the world. Geralt fetches a blanket from inside, and they all squash onto the same garden bench to watch the firepit die down together. The fences and shrubs around the garden are tall, protecting them from the worst of the wind and the prying eyes of their neighbours. Jaskier knows that there are people less than twenty feet away, but it feels like they could be alone in the wilderness. He likes that idea.

Before the fire’s even burned down to embers, Ciri is snoring, her head resting on Yennefer’s arm. Geralt sits on her other side, stroking Ciri’s ash-grey hair. His other arm is around Jaskier’s waist. 

“This was a good idea, J,” Geralt rumbles eventually. “We needed it.” Yennefer hums in agreement.

Jaskier snuggles closer. “I just… I know you’re both doing so much to help the world. You’re saving the country, Yenn, and Geralt’s saving lives. And I’m just here, writing music that doesn’t do anything.”

“Your music helps people too,” Yennefer tells him quietly. “Everyone needs an outlet right now. And joy.” He reaches across Geralt to squeeze her hand, letting a tear escape and roll unashamedly down his cheek.

“Thanks, love. But… I just wanted to make something better for people. Three specific people.” He grasps the edge of the blanket, tucks it more firmly around Ciri. “I love you all so much.”

“We love you too,” Geralt rumbles. The words catch Jaskier by surprise, still. For so many years Geralt couldn’t say them, but after decades of work they slip out almost like it’s easy. Jaskier squirrels them away in his heart every time, uses them to him warm in those moments when he doubts himself. If people as amazing as Geralt and Yennefer and Ciri believe in him, who is he to disagree?

The fire has burned down; he shivers in a gust of cold November wind. The poet’s soul in him wants to believe that words of love _are_ all he needs to stay warm, but his human body betrays him. How mundane.

Geralt feels Jaskier’s shivers, with Jaskier pressed up against him like he is. “Bed?” He suggests, and Jaskier finds that some words can, in fact, banish the cold.

“Bed,” Jaskier agrees. Geralt stands, lifting Ciri without effort and carrying her back to the house. Yenn wraps the blanket around her and Jaskier’s shoulders and they follow him back into the house, the sound of other peoples’ fireworks still popping in the air playing them out like a drumbeat.


End file.
